


Stressed

by wonderfullybland



Category: McFly
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Fic circa 2010 (sorry), Fluff and Angst, M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 19:56:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7771069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonderfullybland/pseuds/wonderfullybland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>I didn't know you got so stressed.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stressed

**Author's Note:**

> I was cleaning out my laptop and found this fic I wrote back in 2010 (oh boy). It turned out to be not as bad as I expected... still not great, still a little embarrassing for me, but maybe someone here will like it. I present it to you in its original (unbeta'd, possibly mistake-ridden) form.
> 
> It used to be up on Livejournal somewhere, so if you've been around the block you might have read it before.

I didn't know you got so stressed.

I mean, I knew that you got _stressy_ and obsessive and your unnatural mothering instinct kicked in when things weren't getting done or we were messing about at a crucial time. I remember you complaining at rehearsals when we got derailed chattering about the state of Dougie's bedroom and you stood at the side, a flush on your cheeks and your teeth firmly against your bottom lip as you tried your hardest not to scream at us. We don't always do it to wind you up - we're just not as organized and focused as you are. If you weren't constantly complaining at us to stay on target, we'd never get anything done. I know that for sure.

But I would never have said you were stressed. 

If someone had asked me, "Danny, would you say that Thomas Michael Fletcher is stressed?" I would have laughed in their face. I would have told them that you're stressy and obsessive and that we infuriate you, but never in a million years would I have ever said that you were stressed.

Guess I was wrong, hey?

I first saw it all getting to you last year. We'd just had a meeting with management, a ridiculously formal thing in one of a posh hotel's conference rooms, where they spent the whole hour ranting at us about the new album and marketing strategies and the upcoming tours and God-knows-what-else. They really drove home how important the next album would be, repeating again and again how crucial it was to attract new fans, keep the old fans, make the albums sell, get good reviews, stay on the right side of the media, and it went on and on and on and I switched off halfway through because I'd heard it all before. We'd _all_ heard it before. I picked a spot on the wall and let my eyes glaze over, their unnecessarily stern words sailing right over my head. 

I suppose I should have been looking at you. 

You were right next to me. It would have been all too easy to glance at you and ask in a simple touch if you were alright. Harry said he looked at you one time, and you looked terrified. Their words didn't bother us, but they seemed to hit something inside of you. When we were let out of the meeting, somewhere between being rushed out of the hotel and shoved onto our bus to the venue, I should have noticed how pale you looked, how your hands were shaking. I didn't really notice you, to be honest. As soon as we were on the bus, out of management's earshot, we spent the entire ride bitching about them, laughing and cracking jokes about how serious it all was. It's meant to be about the music, nothing else, right? And as we mocked them, I didn't notice the lack of your voice.

I just didn't notice you weren't there.

Before I knew it we were at the venue, game faces on and we played bloody brilliant. On form. Especially you. Then afterwards there was a lull while the bus broke down and we sat around backstage while mechanics half-heartedly poked at it. Dougie went out straight away to meet the lingering fans, Harry following a heartbeat later with a bottle of water. I remember starting down the hall after them, but turning round a second later to get a handful of permanent markers. I went back, less than graceful, and I saw you through the crack between the door and the frame. You were sat at the table against the wall, head in your arms, hands fisted in your hair and you were shaking. I suppose you were crying. And I swear my heart stopped as I watched you. Then I did something awful that I still regret.

I walked away.

I turned around and left, snagged a Sharpie out of Dougie's pocket and signed everything that the fans threw at me. I tried so hard to forget what I'd seen. And so did you. When the bus was fixed and we were loaded on like small children on a field trip, you were fine. I made a point to check, I watched you intently for a good five minutes to make sure you were alright. And you were. 

Right?

It happened again a few months later. I'd forgotten all about it by then - you were right back to your normal self. But after a day of interviews, two weeks into the tour, I saw you again, alone in our dressing room. This time, I'm positive you were crying. And again, I turned around and left. And I don't know why.

It's happened a lot, hasn't it?

Not just the times when I see it. I used to kid myself when I was little that if I couldn't see it, it wasn't happening. It didn't exist. That would be a bloody brilliant thing now, wouldn't it? Save you crying. I'd do anything. You remember last night, yeah? We were back at home, tour done and dusted and you shouldn't have been stressed. But you were. I'm sure. We were watching movies in the living room, some crap that Dougie picked out, and you excused yourself to go to bed. The others didn't notice, but I did. Funny, that. Honestly, I only noticed because just a minute earlier I'd glanced at my watch and thought, _bloody hell, it's only five thirty! Only an hour left of this stupid movie._ Then you stood up and went upstairs and it didn't sit right with me. 

So I followed you.

Not straight away. Inconspicuously. I can be quite sneaky when I put my heart to it. I waited through another fifteen minutes of shite before excusing myself. Not that they noticed anyway. I went straight to your bedroom, cursing the steps for creaking. I don't know why, but I didn't want you to know I was there. I got up to your bedroom, and the door was left open just a crack. I'm glad your door doesn't creak. You were asleep on the bed, still in your jeans and shirt, covers screwed up under your feet. You looked exhausted, and hand-on-my-heart I saw dried-up tear tracks on your cheeks. 

And I thought you were perfect. 

I couldn't help myself, officer, I swear. I came into your room, stepping lightly to avoid waking you. I made it over to your bed, and I had no idea what to do next. I had a plan by the door, you see, but once I got closer my head emptied itself of anything important and I could only think about you. Although, I suppose that itself is an important thing. You. You're important. You were on your side, one arm bent, hand under the pillow, the other arm stretched out lazily across an empty space on the bed.

A space just big enough for me.

So that's what I did. I carefully lifted up your arm, and laid down next to you. I put my head against your chest and moved your arm down to wrap around my waist. I did the same, one arm across your waist and the other balled up in your shirt. I swear we were built to fit together. And you shifted in your sleep and I didn't think it was possible for us to be closer but you managed it. You smelt so good, by the way. And even though it was only six o'clock, I fell asleep next to you.

And you know the best part, Tom?

You were still there when I woke up.


End file.
